by Beth Rhodes
“Ahmed Hassan—”
She sucked in a breath. The man had been on their lists for a couple years. Chatter between the CIA and the foreign agencies indicated growth within the Muslim faction. His recruiting efforts last year were noted by Homeland Security, the information disseminated throughout all agencies. He’d risen in status…not only on the United States’ government most-wanted lists, either.
“I’m coming in.” Emily ended the call and stuffed her phone into her back pocket. She made the seventeen-minute walk to the embassy an eight-minute run. She showed her ID and ran up the stairs to the conference room where Richard had been stewing along with the other officials.
And she stopped when she saw that face on the screen.
The face that had killed her best friend.
The face that would probably haunt her days and nights for weeks to come.
The detachment she’d applied to her job for so many years was gone.
She wanted him…dead.
She would kill him if it was the last thing she did.
Qatar
One year later
Emily Rogers had transferred from agency to agency at her own requests, and with a little help from Richard, in order to get this assignment. She didn’t care what acronym of government forces was giving the orders. She was taking the order to kill Ahmed Hassan.
Finally.
After the longest year of her life. Sleepless nights. Intense training. Months of research and searching for answers—from the government, from God.
Hassan had personally touched her life.
She was about to personally touch his.
And selling her soul to the devil, to the rage buried deep inside her, was a small price to pay for this justice. One bullet. One life.
This time, she would look into the face of her target, and there would be no inner turmoil. Those days were over.
Her blinders were gone, the truth revealed.
Some people were better off dead. Hassan was their king.
Emily didn’t let herself get comfortable as she waited.
She had the best seat in the house.
They called it a peace talk.
She was going to bring peace, all right. For herself.
And then she was going home.
Her rooftop vantage point gave her visual access to the office building where the talks were taking place. She had the window pegged and her strike zone marked, set in her mind, thanks to the CIA insider who’d been feeding them intelligence for the last two hours.
The men would have assigned seats around the room, each one labeled—as they would have been in western culture, in a parliament or senate gathering. Irony?
Maybe.
She didn’t need the names, anyway.
The face of her target was branded in her mind. She’d studied the face, set him into computer programs to adjust the look—gained weight, lost weight. Didn’t matter. She would know. She had studied.
Her heart pounded and she blew out a breath.
“The men are entering,” her spotter said quietly next to her.
“You don’t have to whisper, you know.”
“Shit, I don’t care. It’s too creepy in this place to talk out loud. Don’t you watch Supernatural? There are ghosts of thousands of dead civilians, probably killed in some suicide bomber’s radical plot to rid the world of…God knows what. I’ll whisper, thank you very much.”
Emily shrugged, giving her attention back to the building across the way.
The men were settling in, adjusting robes. One smoked and another was sipping from a small tin cup. And then Hassan was there, in her line of sight. He looked exactly the same as she remembered from those photos she’d seen the day of the bombing in Brussels. She couldn’t take her gaze off him, noted the graying at his temples and the slight limp on his right side.
She guessed she was lucky.
Lucky that these radical leaders weren’t afraid to meet.
She thought back. It had been ten years before they’d found and killed Osama bin Laden. Because he’d hidden, like a coward, knowing the price on his head.
Had things changed in the world so much that these men would meet without fear?
Blinking her eyes closed, she set aside the questions.
Today was for one thing.
In her peripheral, Emily caught a glance of guards on the ground, circling the building where the leaders were meeting. She knew there were guards on her building as well. They would have all the surrounding buildings marked and under surveillance.
But that was why she’d been sitting up here for the last four days.
Waiting.
She checked her watch. “Setting,” she said, as she sighted in.
She mentally settled her nerves by taking a breath and thinking about each limb of her body. She pulled her thoughts in, quieted them. Her eyes stayed on the small windsock hanging from the roof line. Limp, not even a breeze to break the heat of the morning.
Another breath—in and out.
She focused on her target, watched his lips moved and his eyes scan the room in front of him.
He smiled.
Emily fingered the trigger, and in that moment—same as every moment before—the pull of her conscience proved that she wasn’t dead, not completely dead inside. And for the first time in her career, it pissed her off, making her frown, making her focus harder on the target. Center mass. Chest shot.
Ease flowed through her, and she squeezed. The sound of the shot firing came in the same instant a blur of movement marred her scope, and she pulled back. “No, no, no.”
She released the shell and reloaded, never taking her eyes off the strike zone.
Her hands shook. “What the fuck was that? What the fuck was that?”
She homed in on the room across the road. Men were out of their seats, shouting. Had she missed? In her entire career, she’d never missed a shot. “Give me the fucking binoculars,” she said, holding a hand out.
She had no clear shot now.
If she’d missed, it was over. A year of work—for nothing.
And then she saw her target’s face, awash in complete and utter agony. Tears streamed down his face. She forced her brain to focus. To see more than her target alive. He held a child in his arms.
A lifeless child.
The blur?
A child. She froze, fear triggering panic, which resulted in a mind-numbing state of shock. She couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes from the dark hair that hung over the arm of Hassan.
“Clear the room,” her spotter shouted into her face, breaking her from her paralysis.
They were now fifty seconds behind schedule. No small number when a helicopter would touch down on the roof, barely making contact before it lifted off again.
She broke down her weapon, stuffed her bag, and strapped it to her back.
Autopilot took her up the stairs and opened the door to the roof, where she waited a fraction of a second. She heard nothing, saw nothing, and ran when the helicopter touched down, ducking her head as she jumped. She belted herself in, closed her eyes, and gripped the seat as the hulk rose back into the sky.
The noise of the rotors drowned her thoughts…
Just to be sure no one saw, she sat on her shaking hands.
Today changed her life forever…
“Who are you with?”
John Vega looked up from his beer on the bar and into the face of the Richard Dixon, an FBI handler he’d been watching over the past week. “Hawk Elite.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “The new upstart out of North Carolina.”
John nodded. “Not so new at this point. Been on the ground and running for eight years now.”
“Hawkins, right? I met him some time ago when he was stationed at Fort Belvoir.”
John had been on loan to the FBI for a week now, doing contract work at the hotel that housed private contractors in Qatar. Word was that bad intel—and a bullet—had led to the death of a
child.
Bad news for everyone, which should have led to the biggest cover-up in a decade or more. Instead, the press had gotten wind of the news and there’d been journalists beating down the doors to get to the sniper. An FBI—female—sharpshooter.
He hadn’t gotten a look.
His curiosity had grown by leaps and bounds. So he’d dug and had Malcolm do some digging, too, on those special computers of his. And he’d hit pay dirt when he found information about the bombing last year in Brussels. Hassan, today’s target. And the security conference John had missed because he was in the Philippines at the time.
“You’ll tell Hawk I said hello.”
“Yes, sir,” John replied, tipping his cup up.
Richard turned to go, and was stopped by a tall blond woman. Tall. Taller than any woman that John, who was a good six feet and four inches, had ever met. She would probably be able to look into his face and he might not get a crick in his neck if he talked to her for longer than a minute.
He sipped again, watching her in the mirror behind the bar.
Her face was blank. He didn’t know how else to describe it, but her eyes…they were torn by agony. He couldn’t take his gaze from her. She was statuesque, a true goddess…in tight blue jeans and a blouse that dropped below her waistline. She wore boots to the tops of her calves.
Well, damn it. He was completely in lust with her.
He set his glass down and turned on the stool. Wouldn’t hurt to introduce himself.
But as he was about to approach, several of the toad journalists came through the doorway and walked directly to Richard and the woman.
Richard put a protective hand on her shoulder and created a wall as he spoke softly to the press.
John listened, without any guilt, learning that this was the shooter.
Emily Rogers. His heart went out to her—not that she looked like she needed his sympathy. The stoicism in her stance, in her eyes, could crumble the hardest heart.
He had to wonder how news of her identity had gotten out. They’d already been speculating on the necessity of force, of military involvement, of cold-hearted killers, of politics and the United States where it didn’t belong…
He watched as she gripped Richard’s side and turned her face away from the flashes.
For an instant, she was looking right at him, and the agony in her eyes was like a knife through his heart. And then she was gone, escorted away by several security agents from the FBI.
He watched Richard put an arm around her as they walked out the door. Her blond hair fell from the knot at the back of her head and cascaded down her back. Jesus, she was beautiful, too.
Inappropriate, Vega.
She was traumatized.
“She’s leaving on a plane in the morning,” a journalist said to his associate, and John eavesdropped. “Heard she was quitting—for good.”
“I heard they were firing her. Sniper who can’t tell the difference between a man and a child.”
“Fuck that, Jones. You shut your mouth. If any shit ends up in the media about that woman, I’m coming to you, asshole.”
The man let out a sound of disbelief. “Why are we even the hell over here, getting in the middle of this war? They were here for their own fucking peace talks. Isn’t that what we want? For them to either find peace or fucking kill each other. Just another Ahmed, check.”
John’s heart pounded and his ears rang as he slowly stood and planted himself in front of the short, overweight man. He looked down on a balding head and cleared his throat. The man backed up a step and tipped his head—way back. “Can I help you?” the prick asked.
John narrowed his eyes. Did he tell this little dipshit about the bombing a year ago? Did he share how not everyone was as untouched by extremists as the average, lousy American journalist?
John scowled. The prick didn’t deserve the scoop or the reality check.
“She’s a sharpshooter, asshole.”
“Whatever.”
John lifted a brow.
“Fine. Sorry. No offense meant. Geez. They both do the same damn thing—”
John glowered, annoyed with himself for bothering, and picked up his jacket. Then he looked at the other men and a few women. He eyed them each, wanting to remember their faces, the way they were going to manipulate what they knew in order to create the best story for whatever paper they were attached to. A few had the decency to look contrite.
But one would tell it one way. The next another way. Until no one really knew what the truth was… He shook his head and bumped into the asshole as he passed through to get to the front entrance.
He looked both ways when he reached the sidewalk.
She was gone, leaving on a flight tomorrow…or was she? Would Richard have allowed her itinerary out? Or had they meant to mislead? He stood there, the heat of the evening sweltering and God-awful in this part of the world.
And he knew. He’d missed her. She’d be on an airplane for the nearest installation with access to the quickest flight overseas.
Then from there, who knew?
“Shit,” he whispered, disappointment filling him.
The feeling was quickly replaced by determination.
Hawk could always use another good shooter.
He was going to do whatever he could to find her.
Chapter One
Two Years later
Chicago Illinois
The press of metal against his fingernail increased millisecond by millisecond, fraction by fraction of an inch, until the pain became an all-consuming fire in his hand and up his arm. The crush blinded him.
“That’s merely what I’m doing for the grand.” The man’s raspy, breathless voice brushed against his ear and his nail finally cracked. Blood dripped off his finger to the cement floor below. Lights shone in his face, the man above him a silhouette.
Didn’t matter. He didn’t need to see the face to know the man.
Damien Campino. The no-name loan shark from his own neighborhood in Chicago. The distant relative who’d gotten him out of a fix down at the tracks. Using him to prove a point, to show the up-and-coming crime syndicate this was his turf, his neighborhood.
He’d become a pawn by his own stupidity, at his own mistake.
Damien nodded, and the pressure let up.
With a groan, he cradled the injured hand. The two muscle men behind him moved forward, anxious to do their part. With a wince, he waited, and it was the waiting that was worse than the actual beating.
He’d trained to take a beating.
The fists came at him. One lifted him; the other threw punches, the glee in his eyes eerie in the cold, dark warehouse.
They didn’t touch his face, though. He never thought he’d be thankful for a beating before today.
A solid punch at his lower back had him seeing white. The guy behind him wanted in too, apparently.
Damien’s face appeared before him, blurry from the sweat and pain. The man crouched before him and sighed. “I give you a month. But you have nothing. I give you two months. And you have a quarter what you owe.” Garlic hung on his breath with the scotch.
“I can get your money—”
The slap cracked off his cheekbone, silencing him. He couldn’t afford the face shots.
“Because you are family, I give you two more weeks.” Damien stood. “I’m a nice guy like that, yes? We used to play on the courts together. Went to school together.”
“You were a nice guy then—”
The man’s nod sent another fist into the small of his back.
“Now you’re a bully.”
“And you’re stupid with your money, stupid with your good fortune. So you have to come to the bully to fend off the bigger bully.” Damien tsked. “Your mama would be so disappointed.”
A cough racked his body, and he spat blood onto the floor.
“Two weeks. Twenty grand. Or I kill your mama.”
Harbor View, North Carolina
The man in the dark
sunglasses with too-long, dark blond hair walked into Emily Rogers’ quiet coffee shop by the sea, and she sighed. “Number nine, number nine, number nine…”
And it was only February.
The job offers had started six months ago.
Apparently, she should be ready to get back to work.
Richard had been the first to appear on her doorstep. She’d turned him right around. No thank you. Then had come Frank, out of Quantico, and Charles from the Army recruitment office. The National Rifle Association. Several smaller private companies, looking to recruit for different shooting competitions throughout the country.
She narrowed her eyes. This one was different. Younger. He wore carpenter pants—even though he was a far cry from a carpenter—a tight black t-shirt, which hugged his muscled arms, and had a firearm at the small of his back.
Not a suit, like they usually came, ready to do business. This guy wore security like a second skin.
After so many offers, she’d become immune to the nerves that flitted through her veins, her practice saying no was going to pay off today, and then she was going to enjoy a nice long weekend in her cozy place by the sea.
The guy walked up to the counter, and Emily ignored him to pour herself a cup of coffee while Callie took his order. Emily hefted her purchase-order book into her arm and took it out to the round table just inside the front door near the corner. With blue wallpaper at her back, she dove into her end-of-the-week ordering. Pastry sales were up fifteen percent from last year this week, and nineteen percent from last week.
Success was happening, albeit slowly.
The quiet success of this business had changed her life. The high-stakes tension of her former career seemed like a long time ago.
And good-looking guy or not, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back—ever.
At the same time, her gaze was drawn to him, and she gauged his stance, his friendliness. He made Callie laugh. A charmer—definitely former military. He pulled the sunglasses down with a grin. Okay, nice grin, full lips, straight teeth—she almost snickered at the thought. She should get into the horse business if she was going to start checking out people’s teeth.